In the Courtyard
by SourCherryBlossom
Summary: A Carrie and Quinn fic, commencing Season 4 Episode 2. My first fanfic. Hoping to capture the angst, complexity and romance of C/Q. It's gonna get dark.
1. In the Courtyard

Carrie eases her G-car into a spot outside the non-descript apartment complex 4 miles south of Langley. She gave the place a once-over- the slightly down-at-heels cars, the door frames that needed paint, the glowing Coke machine that cast a red glow over the swinging "vacancy – short or long term lease" sign. The evening was humid and the breeze on her skin felt almost warm to the touch as she stepped out of the car. If the address in the file checked out, she was standing outside Peter Quinn's latest apartment complex. She knew him, she knew how he lived. She knew that he had about 2 suitcases worth of clothing and spent considerably more time caring for and packing his classic Walther PPK and his Glock 17 than he did for any other possessions. She knew he had an affinity for American hard liquor particularly Mr. Jack Daniels but Wild Turkey was his favorite – and the color grey. Quinn had so many grey shirts, that she had heard one of the office admins call him "Christian Grey" behind his back. If he had overheard and gotten the reference –w hich he would almost certainly have not – he would have frozen the silly admin with a glacial stare and an iceman posture that said, "Don't try me."

Quinn was steady, quiet, clench-jawed in control of difficult situations. Since the bombing, the death of Estes, the loss of so many Langley team members, and the retirement of Saul, he was also one of the last living members of the CIA that she could trust implicitly. But since Sandy's murder by an angry mob in Pakistan, Quinn was going to pieces.

Carrie walked towards the staircase, since the address in the file specified apartment 2F. But she heard sounds from down around the pool, central to the building's fleabag hotel-like layout before she got halfway up. She heard a slurred, mumbling voice – low, sarcastic… yep, sounded like Quinn. And a woman's voice. A little louder, but she seemed to be gentle imploring him to do something.

Then a splash. Not a big body sized splash, a small one.

Carrie moved down the stairs and quietly around the corner. She was wearing one of her signature pantsuits and a white tank top – never wear skirts if you have to fight for respect with male colleagues and possibly even run and use a handgun at work. She wished she had changed into something more casual when she saw Quinn from the back , slumped into a reclining pool lounger, wearing a dark grey ("of course…") T-shirt and black gym pants. Standing next to him, and pointing at the empty liquor bottle floating in the pool was a statuesque woman of about Quinn's age, who was bantering and flirting with Quinn. Her red hair was neatly styled with bangs, and she wiggled her generous hips as she scolded Quinn about his state of drunkenness.

"Hey, please. Don't throw glass in the pool area. I'm going to have to fish that out tomorrow."

Quinn smirked and slid deeper into the chair. "Hmph…" he chortled. "I am soooo sorry. Really sorry," he slurred. He was clearly sloshed.

Carrie watched for another minute, but then decided to be seen. "Hey, Quinn." She opened the gate to the fence that surrounded the pool area and walked over to the woman. "Hi, I'm Carrie."

"Oh. Hi." The apartment manager eyeballed Carrie from head to foot, and took a step back from the lounger. "Your friend is drunk."

Quinn looked around and made eye contact with her. "Carrie, Carrie. Just who I wanted to see. Carrie. Haaaa," he laughed.

Carrie gave the woman a searching look, and then said, "I'll take care of it." Him, she scolded herself internally. I'll take care of him, I meant. But she didn't say it.

The apartment manager gave Quinn a last look and said, "Well, if you want anything, you know where I live." She sauntered off towards a ground-level apartment which looked better kept than the rest of them, with a door neatly painted glossy red and a couple of potted geraniums sitting on either side of it. Carrie watched, her expression blank, until the door closed. Then she sat down in the lounge chair next to Quinn.

"What's going on, Quinn?" Carrie asked, frowning concernedly.

"Oh you know, just a little drink with all my friends. Look at them all," he waved aimlessly around the empty courtyard. "Oops," he slurred, "Looks like you chased my only friend off."

Carrie stood and bent to put a hand on Quinn's upper arm. He shut his eyes at her touch on his bare skin. "Cut the shit, Quinn. Come on, I'll take you inside."

"Carrie, Carrie, you're here to fix everything, aren't you?" Quinn mumbled as he pulled himself heavily to his feet. "I don't need your help," he said, stepping quickly to one side, and almost losing his balance.

"Whoa. Here." Carrie put one arm around his waist, and he put an arm over her shoulder. "Come on. Is the door locked? Do you have your key?"

"Hmmz. Key. Yeah, here…" Quinn said, fumbling in his pocket. A minute went by as they shuffled towards the apartment door and up the stairs, arms slung around each other, and still Quinn didn't come up with the key.

"Here, let me," Carrie said. Jesus, he's really drunk, she thought. She reached her hand into the pocket of his gym pants and felt for the key.

"Oh, Carrie, be careful, what you might grab in there…" Quinn chortled.

"I don't give a fuck, Quinn. What are you doing out here anyway?"

"I don't give a fuck anymore either, Carrie. That's what I'm doing out there." He belched companionably.

"Nice," Carrie said, wrinkling her nose.

His arm around her shoulder tightened as she felt around in his pants pocket. She came up with the key and unlocked his apartment door. Pushing the door open, she guided him inside. The apartment was classic Quinn – hardly any personal effects, hardly a sign that a person lived there. A secured G-laptop, a locked briefcase with papers, a few items of clothing folded with military precision, and lined up with perverse neatness, three, no, four empty liquor bottles on the passthrough bar.

"Do you have any food in this place? You should drink something, and take Tylenol, or something."

"Don't know. Don't care," Quinn said, falling full-length on the couch, his arm over his eyes.

Carrie sat on the coffee table next to Quinn's couch and just for a minute, listened to his breathing. She looked at her hands, at the floor. What was wrong? He had been working this kind of ops job for years. She knew he was talented with wetwork. What the hell was going on in his head?

"Quinn," she tried again. "Talk to me. What the hell is going on with you?"

He said nothing, but removed his arm from his eyes, turning his bloodshot gaze towards her face. He looked at her for a moment – closely. So closely she started to feel very uncomfortable. Almost undressed. His eyes on her face, her torso, her hands, her body… she started to feel hot. She looked at the floor as he started to speak.

"There are so many things… so many things I could tell you. But I can't. Won't. But," he sat up quickly, too quickly for someone so apparently drunk. "But… I'd like to. Someday. Let's just say…" he trailed off.

Jesus, he was so complicated. "Say what, Quinn."

He looked back at her. Somehow his eyes were cooler. He seemed a lot more sober, and when he spoke he was back to being more of the iceman she was used to.

"Let's just say, tonight's not the night. I need to go to bed."

Carrie stood up a Quinn got to his feet. He headed towards the bathroom, and with his back to her, said, "Good night, Carrie."

"Quinn, I could stay. If you wanted me to."

He turned around and looked at her from the open bathroom door. "Do you need to?" Quinn said, his eyes once again studying hers. That searching gaze again.

She looked at him. The drunkenness, the strange talk about secrets, but what wetwork operative didn't have secrets? If she didn't know better, she'd say he seemed vulnerable. Thus her offer. But he asks _her_ if _she_ needed to stay.

"No, I don't need to stay. I thought you might like it if I did."

Quinn looked at his feet for a moment, closed his eyes and sighed deeply. When he looked back at Carrie, his gaze was clear. "Night, Carrie. Lock the door on your way out." The bathroom door shut with a quiet click, and he was gone.


	2. Close enough, for now

In the morning, Quinn rolled out of bed and sat up, only to lie straight back down again. His head, his ears, his very skull hurt. He remembered Carrie asking if he had anything to drink, or any Tylenol, and wished he'd listened to her. Or at least sent her out for Gatorade. He tried sitting up again with better luck this time, and started to slowly make his way to the kitchen.

A quick look in the fridge yielded nothing much – take out containers, mustard, a six pack of Heineken. He briefly considered the beer as rehydration, then shuddered and thought better of it. He closed the fridge and turned around, reaching into the dishwasher for a clean glass. He filled it with the finest cold Virginia tap water, and took this with him to the bathroom. A brief search yielded Aspirin (who still takes aspirin?), Tylenol (Huh, I did have it), and a brown vial with 8 Vicodin left over from the last hospital stay, gunshot wound, fistfight… or something. He gulped two Tylenol, stripped and got in the shower.

He stood under the flow, feeling the needles of the hot shower sooth his scalp and back. He rubbed water in his face and started to think back on the previous evening. Booze – TV – pool looked inviting but he was too drunk to get that far – more booze – the chick from downstairs. What was her name? I don't think I even asked her.

But then Carrie had shown up. Had taken him upstairs – had _touched_ him – and had even offered to stay. Stay on the couch? Stay and talk? He had been too fucked-up to figure it out. But she had come, and at least asked him what was wrong. It made it better, somehow. It was a start.

Quinn thoughtfully soaped his short haircut, feeling the medicine starting to work. It had been so many years since he'd had a connection. A friend, even a friend of the same sex. There had been people in college he'd have called friends. Study buddies, drinking buddies. Time had been where he'd even had a girlfriend. Someone he thought he loved at the time. Or maybe he had mistaken the desire to connect, to be with someone, to feel like he belonged, as love. And then came the Agency. In spite of it, he'd managed to spend enough time with a woman to think he'd like to be with her, to get her pregnant. When the time came to split, though, he left Julia and … the boy . John Jr. He left them flat. As he'd told Carrie, he fucked it up. With his kid, anyway. And somehow, he had been detached enough from people, places and things that it just didn't matter. He wondered if this made him a bad person. This last few months, he'd been asking himself that a lot.

But from the first minute he'd seen Carrie Mathison, some kind of alarm had gone off in his head. She was a gorgeous woman, no doubt. She had a physical magnetism that made his hands itch to reach out and touch her, for any reason. And she was an amazing analyst with a mind like no other – a brilliance, a way of connecting facts and people which made her no less than a national treasure.

The dark side of Carrie, the part that everyone had trouble with, that was part of the package. From the very start, Quinn knew that. He accepted her quirks, her illness, her inability to see anything but the problem she was working on, while she was working on it. Realized that she was worth helping. That her whole life was dedicated to finding and neutralizing the goons that would hurt this country. At the same time, her obsession with Brody was nothing short of appalling to him. But he understood – this is the way she was made. She was into Brody, so she was going to have him. When he set himself up, scope and rifle, in the deep woods near the Mathison cabin, watching Carrie and Brody indulging in their house-playing fantasy, he knew he couldn't take the shot. He couldn't take his eyes off her bare back as Brody caressed it. It would have killed her to watch him die in her arms. He just couldn't do it.

And, Quinn admitted, Killing Brody would have killed _me_. I couldn't do that to her. No matter how wrong her obsession felt, no matter how unlikely a happy ending was, it couldn't be me that killed the person she thought she loved. He turned off the shower and got out.

Toweling himself off, he shuffled to the bedroom closet to pick out some work clothes. It was only 8:00 AM and if he turned up at the base in short order, he should be able to downplay his state from the night before. Even as strung out as he felt, he wasn't anxious to parade these feelings in front of others. Because, what would it help? He had an appointment later this week with a psychological counselor, who was supposed to screen him for PTSD. Please, madam, spare me… but he had to go.

He selected gray gabardine slacks and a navy blue button down that accommodated his favorite pancake holster. He pulled together his briefcase and computer and grabbed his black jacket. He found the apartment keys sitting right on the edge of the coffee table. Carrie again. If she only knew what she did to him when she had her hand in his pocket! Good God.

He thumped down the stairs and saw the apartment manager lady, who had a blue bowling jacket on and was scraping the bottom of the pool with a long-handled pool net, trying to retrieve what appeared to be a liquor bottle. "Good morning," he said with some mustered cheer.

"Good morning yourself," she muttered sourly. Whatever, thought Quinn.

On the drive in, he considered the vector of Carrie's life and career since he declined to take the shot at Brody and further, had told Estes that if anybody else whacked Brody out, he would know and take care of them. No, it had to be this way. The Taliban, the true bad guys, they had strung Brody up and put his lights out for good. A weird dude, in some ways loyal Marine, in other ways, broken forever. And what had Quinn done for Carrie? Because he didn't take the shot, she had spent more time with Brody. She even had an embarrassing hookup with him while Saul and Quinn were wired in. If she only knew how agonizing it was for him to listen to that. Every sound she made while she screwed Brody… it kept him awake at night. For weeks after that hookup, the sounds she made were all he could think about.

And now she had Brody's baby. Her Dad had apparently flaked out, although she was reticent to talk about it, and it would seem that her sister had taken over as the mother figure. The baby – Franny – would be well taken care of, Quinn had no doubt. But Quinn knew that Carrie didn't have a maternal bone in her body. Maybe it was better this way.

Maybe it's better this way because – she can go to Istanbul. Station Chief, it's her dream job, after all. She can be free to do her job – when she's on her game, she's really good at it. The best. Maybe it's better this way because – when she's overseas, in the field, I can protect her. I can care for her. She can be … his mind approached the word… shied back from it and then admitted it – she can be mine.

Quinn snapped out of his obsessive trance as he approached the security gate. He rolled his window down and showed his ID to the gate agent with a curt "Hi" and a nod. He drove off towards the parking lot for his building, and found a spot about two over from Carrie's G car. Close enough to walk with her when she comes out. Close enough to keep an eye on her when she leaves at night.

Close enough, for now.


	3. Of course it is

Quinn made his way past the entry gate, through the newly outfitted "sniffer" machines designed to pick up the slightest whiff of explosives, and into the New CIA Headquarters Building in Langley. The moniker "new" was true only relative to the older building across the interior courtyard – the groundbreaking in 1984 meant that the offices were warm in winter, cool in summer and that all of the indoor plumbing worked more or less as desired. It had one thing in common with the other government buildings located 8 miles to the East – the coffee machine produced utter crap.

Crap or not, it was the only game in town. Quinn got himself a healthy sized cup and added a good amount of sugar. Had to get those calories from somewhere. Then he headed for his desk, which was along the perimeter of the Middle East section, passing by a closed conference room where a meeting was going on inside. He paused by the door to listen for a moment. Several male voices, one female. Nobody raising their voice. Good.

He sat down and booted up. Sipping the awful coffee, he checked his email, looking through some HR directives, some bookkeeping items, and other pending emails, people he'd been ignoring. He flipped to some routine intel screenings, and tried to concentrate on going over the finer points of some of the field operative's latest acquisitions.

What nobody ever told me about the CIA, Quinn thought, is just how much boredom and repetitive work there would be. Surveillance? 99% boredom, 1% excitement. Intel work? The vast majority of it is crushingly dull. So much information to be had, from simple routine sources. Things could be found out and joined together that weren't even secret. So much information about foreign governments and their actions could be found on websites, in phone conversations, and intercepted mail, that whole parts of the department were employed just to go through them. Finding the important pieces, and pulling them together out of the chatter – figuring out which event was the next "big one", who planned it and who was responsible – that was what Carrie was good at.

But as a covert field operations specialist, Quinn was damn good at it too. He was a clever guy with an eye for patterns – for "thin slicing" situations and figuring out the implications of what he was seeing. It was partly puzzle solving, partly raw instinct. It was the reason he was still alive.

The question was, what was he still doing _here_? A year before, despite his most careful attempt to take out just the right person, he had killed a child in Caracas. The event sickened him to the point where he thought he was losing it. Somehow he had come back around and here he still was, doing the same job. But everything changed in a second, when he and Carrie had seen on the foreign TV station that Sandy's cover was blown. Oh, God. What a mess.

His mind kept drifted back to that horrible afternoon in Islamabad. Carrie and Quinn had raced out to collect Sandy. They reached him by phone and set a rendezvous point. Racing through the convoluted city streets, they made it to the pickup spot in record time. They got him into the car, but escaped the pick-up point only to be blocked into a street by a truck.

I did what I could, Quinn thought. I did the best I could in a vehicle that wasn't the best for the situation. I only had my sidearm. But it wasn't enough.

Sandy had been pulled from the car by the mob, and even though Quinn had fired into the crowd, and killed some members of the mob, it only cleared a partial path for the Jeep. Sandy had been surrounded and was being beaten. And Quinn had to make a decision.

It was her or Sandy. Or maybe all three of us. I couldn't stand the idea of Carrie being … grabbed – beaten… something worse. He had backed up and gotten the hell out of there. He had killed for her and undoubtedly saved her life.

And what was her reaction? "We have to go back!" Not a bit of gratitude or even a moment of thanks. I don't know why it should bother me, I know how she operates. But this time, it makes me a little sick.

He realized that during his musing, he had returned to the video of Sandy, himself, Carrie and the angry mob, and was playing it and replaying it. This, Quinn thought, finishing the horrible coffee and crumpling the cup, this is why I'm on the verge of leaving the Agency. I know what I agreed to. I know where my duty lies. And I did my duty. I saved _her_ life. But it sickens me all the same. Sandy died. I made a choice. _Was it the right choice?_ Am I going soft in the head? The day I can't make good decisions on this job, I'm fucked. I'm no good to Carrie or anybody else.

Completely lost in reverie, he thought to himself: whether or not anyone else knows or understands… I know why. _Because she's mine_, he thought. Every time he said this to himself, he found it easier to say. Maybe my decision making is fucked because of it. Maybe she's better off without me. When I lost sight of Sandy, maybe I lost sight of my real mission. Fuck, I have no idea what to do.

Not being given to introspection, it shocked him to think of it. But maybe, Quinn thought, maybe I'm not cut out for this anymore. Maybe she's better off with someone who's … more detached.

A hand fell onto his shoulder. He smelled a familiar perfume, or lotion, something that she wore. It was intoxicating. He turned, and there she stood.

"Hey, Quinn. You missed the final briefing. Are you ready to go?"

Quinn turned towards her without rising. Impulsively, he stated, "I'm not going." He wished he sounded different than a pouting teenager, but that's how he sounded to himself.

Carrie studied his face for a moment. "What do you mean, you're not coming. I need you."

Quinn sighed. "We need to talk about this."

She glared impatiently, all Type-A now that she had her game face on. "Fine. Courtyard. Ten minutes." And whirled off.

They met in the tree-filled courtyard, near the fish pond. Quinn had been waiting for a few minutes when Carrie stalked up to him with two Starbucks cups and a brown paper bag.

"Here." She handed him one of the cups. "Share this with me."

"You went to Stealthy Starbucks, eh? Which name did you give this time?"

Carrie smiled. "They didn't ask for a name. I guess I'm infamous. And these aren't exotic drinks. Coffee, plain and simple."

They said nothing for a little as they shared a scone. Sitting side by side in the morning sunlight, they could have been any two workmates from any job in the world. In so many ways, Quinn wished it was so. They still worked together – it was a barrier, no doubt. Ask any working person in their 30's or older what it means to speak about your true, intimate feelings to someone you work with. It just isn't done.

But if they worked at an insurance company, or a toy manufacturer, or anyplace else, it would have felt more possible, somehow. For some reason, the covert nature of their work made him feel that his behavior around her must be above board. For the most part, he only indulged his true feelings and exotic fantasies about Carrie when he was drinking. Thus, the amount of liquor he'd been putting away lately. For now, he just relaxed his legs so his left knee touched her right knee. He hoped it was subtle. She didn't move away.

Finally she said, "Are you feeling better?"

"Fine," he said tightly, reverting to type.

"So what did you mean, you're not coming?"

He was quiet for a minute. He sipped his coffee. He realized the tension was growing and she was getting irritated, so he finally said, "I think I'm getting out."

"What?!" Carrie snapped. "You can't be serious."

"I don't know, Carrie, but I feel serious. Ever since Sandy…." He trailed off, wanting to finish the sentence but not knowing how.

"Quinn. Come on. The mob, the situation, it would have been too much for almost anyone. You're alive. I'm alive." Carrie was almost pleading. Quinn shut his eyes.

"I need to think it over. I need to, I don't know, look at myself. What am I still doing? What is the Agency to me?" Quinn hoped that asking these questions would elicit a response from Carrie –something that boosted his self-confidence professionally. Or something that made him feel wanted personally. Either, or both would do.

Carrie drank her coffee. She moved her knee away from his. The companionable warmth between them was cooling. "You need to do what you need to do, Quinn. But I can't say I'll be comfortable over there without you. The operation needs you." She pounded the rest of her coffee and stood up, then turned to him and addressed him still sitting there.

"Whatever you decide, I'll be waiting."

Quinn boiled over a little inside, and when he opened his mouth, what came out was, "You see Carrie, there's one thing…"

"What?"

"It isn't about you."

She rounded on him and strode away, chucking her cup in a trash barrel as she walked inside. As she disappeared out of the courtyard and into the glass doors, he cursed himself for a fool, inwardly, over and over.

_ "You idiot! Of course it's about her. Of course it is. Of course it is."  
><em>


	4. Beyond the sea

Author's note: If you are enjoying, PLEASE REVIEW. I have no idea if I'm hitting the right notes. In love with the characters, but new at this! Cooking up chapter 5 for your pleasure.

Meanwhile, did you know there really is a Stealthy Starbucks at Langley? Enjoy your coffee :-) 

In the air above the Atlantic, Carrie reclined in a first-class seat, and after using the eyeshades, putting in her mouthguard and washing an Ambien down with white wine, she slipped almost immediately into twilight sleep.

For so many months now, she'd required all those things to get anything like sleep. After Brody's death, the birth of her daughter, and then the events on the first trip to Islamabad, it would have been impossible for her to sleep at all without some kind of chemical assistance. For the longest time, she had been tormented by images of Brody – loving him, being with him, and then usually ending in the nightmare of his death. But even though only 11 short months had passed since Franny was born, she realized that the very worst of the grief was starting to lighten.

She still felt emotionally disconnected, that was for sure. She was inward-focused and self-absorbed for the longest time. She had been robot-like, effective at her job. But she had been completely clueless about the feelings and motivations of others around her. That is, until recently. It seemed like Quinn's recent distress had snapped her out of it a little. And then, came the therapy appointment she went to the previous month.

"I keep seeing these horrible images… in my head," she had sobbed. The therapist commiserated, and said, "After a certain point, Carrie, you're just kicking porcupines. You're going to have to feel your grief, no doubt about that. But you should not deliberately create more pain inside yourself. You don't deserve that."

"I don't feel pain, I feel like a machine," she said. "And what the hell do you mean by kicking porcupines?"

"Ah," said the therapist, "I can see you're feeling pain and grief right now. It's obvious. And normal. As for porcupines, that's a reference to an old Ray Bradbury short story. Do you want to hear about it?"

"With all my heart," Carrie snapped.

The therapist continued, "The hero of the story is a space traveler. And he talks about how memories of Earth, which they can never return to, are porcupines. When we deliberately probe sad memories over and over, he says, we're kicking porcupines. Generating unnecessary pain."

Carrie had sniffled. "Well, what would you suggest?"

"I would suggest finding things that make you happy when you think about them. That make you feel safe, make you feel loved. Then make a list. When you start going down that road too often, pull out that list and think about those happy things."

Carrie had rolled her eyes. That was entirely too simple for a woman like herself. But then, it was cost-free to find out if it worked, ridiculous or not. So she thought about it. What makes me feel good, safe, happy, loved, even?

Well, there's my family, she had thought. But Maggie and Dad, well, mostly that's a source of guilt and angst, not love and safety. And Franny. Well, shit, that's 100% guilt.

Apartment? Nice, but anonymous. No pets. Nothing in the transient lifestyle of an agent to feel warmly about. Nothing but…

Quinn. Oh, Quinn. He'd been such an ass at first. Almost the first words out of his mouth to her were something about fucking Brody. But as time had gone by, he'd behaved with more respect. And as they had continued to work together, it became clear that he was very concerned about her… assets. She knew that he was still in an agony of guilt about taking that shot at her, when she had been running up to the hotel, trying to catch the bomber. His excuse was that he couldn't risk anyone else taking the shot. It was strange, but she knew that he was protecting her, even then. Someone who was a lesser shot could have killed or crippled her. He wouldn't let it happen. She was still slightly pissed, but she understood.

So Carrie had come up with a list of one. And the therapist had been right. When the horrible feelings started flowing in, she remembered there was one living person she could trust, rely on, be safe with. It was Quinn. It was why she'd gone looking for him at his apartment on his drunken night by the pool, why she'd been so hurt when he'd decided not to come back to Islamabad – though she hoped she could still talk him around. She intended to try. Quinn, the black ops specialist, God help her, he had become her "Happy Place".

So on the plane, as the twilight phase of her meds kicked in, she turned her mind to Quinn. It was really the best part of her day – in the earliest part of sleep, she could often focus her thoughts around something – desirable – and shape her dreams. And whether or not things really ever happened in the daylight, well Goddamn, at least she could enjoy her fantasies. She cast her mind back to the time in the hospital that Quinn had dropped the towel and stood there in the altogether. She thinks, he did that partly for shock value, kind of a "fuck you," but he also did it as another kind of shock. "Look at me," that gesture had said. She had. She scolded him, but her eyes had taken in every inch.

He really was a beautiful man. Beautiful eyes, beautiful hands. Maybe they were killer's hands, but they didn't look like it to her. In her dreams, they were hands that grabbed her by the lapels of her expensive jacket, that pulled her close enough to smell his breath, hands that gripped her tightly and wound around her, and into her hair. Lover's hands. That reached around to lift her off her feet, that guided her towards his bed. She smiled as she drifted off. Whatever else Quinn might be, he was intense. That would certainly be a good match as far as lovemaking, because she was pretty intense herself.

Over the Atlantic, the jumbo jet hummed as Carrie drifted deeper into a blissful sleep. The nightmares of the past, the fears of the present, the trepidation about the future , all of it needed to be set aside, sometimes. Sometimes even covert operatives need to dream. "And I can dream, can't I?" she thought, smiling. Then, she was out.


	5. Commence Discharge

She was gone. Off to Pakistan, back to work in the C.I.A., out into the world of spies, confidential whispers, inscrutable personal exchanges. She had gone off, still asking him to follow, sending an email full of information, addresses, ideas, leads. He hadn't even said goodbye, just sent a text message saying, "Bon voyage." He felt like an ass for that, but there it was. He didn't know how to take it back.

Quinn sat on the couch in his apartment, gray t-shirt wrinkled and about two days out from a shower. On the couch cushion next to him sat the "Commence Discharge" papers he'd have to fill out in order to leave the agency with his government pension and danger bonuses intact. It was strange to think the USA paid men -so quietly - to kill people. But then again, if he thought about it, he didn't see how different it was from any other kind of military service. If they expected Private Nobody from Nowhere, NJ, to ship out to Iraq, and go to a warzone and kill as directed, they could certainly expect one of their best educated and trained professionals to do the same. The essence of the job didn't bother him at first. That's what he rationalized over the years, and that's how he got into this spot in the first place.

But things had changed over time. In the earlier part of his career, Quinn's emotions were buried deep, and his ability to control for emotional responses to situations had been airtight. That is, until about two years before, when he'd had a come-to-Jesus moment, and realized that his disillusion had begun when he met Carrie Mathison.

He recalled a documentary he'd recently seen, in his perpetually drunken state, about three weeks before - on the Discovery Channel. It had been about diamonds. The narrator had been describing "Kimberlite Pipes", which were tubes of rock under high pressure, leading from the Mantle, nearly the center of the Earth, and brought to the South African sun by geologic forces, which pushed them to the surface and the sunlight. Originating in a very deep layer, Kimberlite often contained diamonds, which was the reason for all the interest.

DeBeers cartel issues aside, the geology lesson had resonated with Peter. Despite all his repression and control, his feelings had forced their way to the surface. Buried in the deep-earth junk rock was a diamond of amazing proportions - synthesized by fire and pressure, borne of terrible need, and pressed to the surface by the years of killing, waiting. His feelings for Carrie, still surrounded by matrix, were the diamond of his life. He would never get over that, or be able to deny it. It lay like a crystal in the sun. "_Mine_," his mind echoed again, irrationally.

Quinn knew that his feelings for Carrie went deeper than some kind of collegial impulse. In the crowd with Sandy and Carrie in the car, he had made a judgment. He was worried that that judgment was incorrect, attached, not practical. It made him feel like any and all of the killing he had done might have been made with the wrong instincts and for the wrong reasons. But while he was sleeping, dreaming, his real feelings emerged, and remembering these dreams on waking, he understood himself better. The desire to save Carrie was a hindbrain-level decision, a Neanderthal decision. She was too precious to him, too close to the visceral part of himself that understood the killing game. She was part of him. He could no more have left her to die in the streets at the hands of the crowd, than he could have drunk lava. The import of this was almost beyond his reckoning. Although she returned to the Middle East as Islamabad station chief, without him, he stayed behind. Just to sort his feelings for a period of time. Hoping to clear his mind, and escape some of the memories. Maybe even, improve himself.

Maybe I could do her better, he thought, if I left the service, and just shadowed her myself.

The idea appealed. Quinn considered himself, surveillance techniques and stealth, cleverness and quiet, watching Carrie without her knowledge in a foreign country. If someone so much as stepped out of line to touch her headscarf, he'd be there. If a man looked at her sideways, and elbowed his buddy, he'd know about it. And when she unlocked the door of her apartment, and went in alone, he'd...

A spiral of tension planted itself in his guts. He thought of her hair, in the car that day. The streak of blood on her cheek. How badly he'd wanted to reach back, pull her into the front seat, break down her Drone Queen exterior and hold her. Wipe the blood off her face with his handkerchief, and kiss her cheeks, her lips.

Fucking stalker, his mind insisted. But there it was. He was not comfortable with her being out there alone, but neither was he comfortable with the state of his mind, currently. He felt half-mad, with love of her. Would he make the right decisions? Or would he get someone else killed, someone who was not on the kill list?

He opened his laptop and went over the last email from Carrie, which described the off-site station she was setting up, part of the Agency but outside the IBD HQ purview. She had brought in Fara, Max, Parvez, and Qadir - a good start, but still missing a deep cover man with a solid knowledge of weapons and ballistics. Not to mention, none of them had her back like he did, and he knew it. Her last email just about begged him to come to Pakistan. He could all but hear her voice saying, "Quinn, please." He shut his eyes and closed the computer.

He went to the kitchen to get a glass of orange juice. He had been ashamed at the state of his place when she had come to his home the other night - what a drunk he had been - and had gone and bought healthy things the next morning. Whether he felt like it or not, he forced himself to prepare a basic, healthy meal three times a day. Simple things, scrambled eggs, broiled steaks. He told himself that he had to keep in shape, the subtext being that if Carrie needed or wanted him, he'd be healthy and ready. Washing the meals down with a selection of hard liquor was not the best choice, but at this time, he wasn't quite ready to suspend his only, best anaesthesia. This nominal reason for acting like something of a normal person - buying groceries, cooking and eating - was underscored by the other potential reason - that if Carrie came back, he'd have something nice to offer her. A seltzer, an orange, maybe sitting down by the pool together. Anything to make her stay longer. What might it be like to cook a meal for Carrie Mathison? He'd examined the idea in his mind, fantasized about it.

He realized that simply cooking and eating came naturally to most normal people, and that it shouldn't be such a big deal. But for him, it was a major improvement. He guzzled the orange juice, and went into the bathroom to inspect the deepening gray circles under his eyes. He was 37. He thought about the lives of other 37-year olds that he might have seen.

The other day, he had been at the nearest convenience store, which he could walk to. In his current state of active alcoholism, he often needed to reload his liquor supply midday, and if he had had a few snorts, there was no way he was driving and endangering others. He had actually picked this apartment because it had a walkable Seven Eleven. He might have been an assassin, but that only included sniping out the bad guys, not carloads of soccer moms.

He had been at the counter, paying for his booze, when he looked out the door at a similarly aged man in Dockers and a button-down. The man had been putting gas in a minivan, and while the pump filled his car, he was making silly faces at the back window. Afterwards, the man had come inside and paid for the gas, along with two bags of Goldfish crackers. Peter watched him leave the convenience store, open the back of the minivan, and hand the crackers to some giggling preschoolers. Watching this simple, everyday interaction opened a hole in his heart, a gulping suckhole into which all his younger hopes and dreams had disappeared. Would he ever be that normal? Wake in the morning next to a warm, loving... woman? Enjoy coffee on the porch while he watched his children playing? Work a normal job and be sure of coming home every evening? He wiped quickly at the corner of his eye while he paid for his J&B - a step down from Wild Turkey, but now he was economizing. He drank too much.

Especially last night. Carrie's absence, his feelings of inadequacy, all came to a head when he went to the required PTSD exit counseling session yesterday, with the C.I.A.'s pet headshrinker, Angela Byatt. He had sat in the debrief chamber, stiff as a board, as she came in. Blonde-gray hair curled neatly, a huge file folder in her hand. I'm sure it is a huge file, he thought. Probably half a ream of paper for every terrorist I whacked out since 2002.

"Nice to see you again, Peter," she said. "I believe it was almost a year ago. You were looking to leave the Agency, then, as well?"

"That was different," Quinn said immediately.

"How so," she asked archly.

"I'd just shot and killed a kid. And now? I just want out. I'm done." He tried to sound final, and almost convinced himself.

Angela smiled mysteriously. Fucking Agency shrinks. "As I'm sure you're aware," she intoned, "It's not as simple as that. We need to certify that you're not a danger to yourself. Or to others, among other things."

At least I started eating again, he thought. "I have myself under control. I've been in control for twelve fucking years," Peter said.

The psychiatrist nodded, then cocked her head to one side. "Last time you were here," she said, "You were talking about nightmares."

Nightmares, no shit, he thought. Children, blood, darkness. The light in the eyes of another human being fading, going out. Shooting Carrie in the arm and bandaging her in the ambulance, one second too late, as she bled out and died, the life leaving her eyes as he screamed. The deaths of half a hundred anonymous foreign nationals and US expats, out in politically sensitive zones, with plastique in each hand, and a screw loose. His gut twisted.

"Seeing your first kill over and over again, his head in a puddle of mud." Peter looked daggers at the shrink. She was recalling his entry into The Life, the memory of his first kill, and exploiting the way it made him feel. He wished he'd never shared it. He folded his lips into a tight line, and said nothing.

"Obviously, we need to talk about the recent events in Islamabad," she said.

"Obviously," Peter snarled.

"What about the two men you killed on the ground there? Do you think about them?" she asked provocatively.

"I do not," Quinn stated. But truly, it scared him. Had he made the wrong decision? Could he have done something differently? It was a brutal and violent situation, and he had had to act so fast. In the end, the Neanderthal part of him had won out. He, his heart, his mind, had decided to save Carrie, or die trying.

"I think about Sandy and Carrie and the choice I made," he said finally.

The shrink's eyes lit up. Oh boy, thought Quinn, internally rolling his eyes, now we're getting to the good stuff. "Carrie Mathison?" Dr. Byatt asked.

"Yes."

"She came up a lot, the last time we talked."

"I don't remember," Quinn lied.

"You said she was one of the reasons you wanted out of Dar Adal's group," said the doctor.

"Maybe she was," Quinn said cryptically.

"The Agency is worried you might want to talk about this one day."

Quinn tried to produce a reassuring smile. "Well, you tell them not to worry," he said, "I know what I agreed to."

"And what about Carrie? You know you had a choice to make in that car," said Dr. Byatt. She waited a beat for emphasis, then said, "You chose her."

Quinn's throat filled with a lump, and the sick feeling in his stomach intensified. Like he hadn't been over it in his mind 1,000 times.

"I don't see what this has to do with anything, " he said, trying to divert the subject to something less painful, less personal.

"Let me be the judge of that," said the doctor, arrogantly.

Quinn's eyes filled with hot tears, which he swallowed instantly, with iron control. He looked at the wall mirror, knowing full well that there was a camera behind it, and probably observation by that asshole Dar Adal, or any number of another black Ops senior people. He wouldn't - he couldn't - talk about Carrie Mathison like she was part of an operation.

His gut roiled. He couldn't even begin to explain his feelings for her. She was his Achilles' heel. She was an angel on his shoulder -she was an houri tempting him to undress, lips moist and beckoning - she was so much more. He stood up abruptly, pushing sentimentality down the tubes and covering it with an aggressive show of irritation.

"You know what? Fuck this," he spat, and stormed out of the room.

He had gone straight home and opened a bottle of scotch, and was well in the bag an hour later.

The next day, head aching, he thought of Carrie, thought of her words, her voice, her hands, her eyes. Some part of him wanted to curse her, but couldn't. Her very existence had kept him hanging on for another year. But somehow, he was too contained to tell her. Something, somewhere, had to break.

Peter swept the "Commence Discharge" papers onto the floor, straightened up his back, and went into the kitchen. He methodically cleaned and sanitized the kitchen counters, the prepared and ate two scrambled eggs, and a piece of toast. He rubbed his chin and thoughtfully considered a shave. Then, he headed for the shower to clean up. To keep sharp, to keep ready.

For her.


	6. The Night Watch

On Carrie's orders, 9:30 staff meeting had been reconvened in the intel room at Islamabad station. The group of operatives sat open mouthed, as John Redmond condescended to the new station chief, "Young lady, let's have a chat," he'd said. Like he was inviting a new kindergarten teacher to a dressing down in the teacher's lounge.

With a voice as cold as the Iron Curtain, Carrie ordered: "Sit down, John."

Carrie had walked into an unstable situation in Islamabad station, but it didn't become clear to her how unstable it was, until John Redmond attempted to snap her garters in her very first staff meeting. Trying to undermine her new authority was something she might have expected from anyone who thought that they'd been tapped for the job, but flagrantly treating her like an errant schoolgirl in front of her entire staff was unexpected.

Fortunately for Carrie, and unfortunately for Redmond, his mildly intoxicated bloviating was met with Carrie's iron-hard command. She hadn't gotten where she was by pandering to male authority. A guy named Hensley complained that the station had been on lockdown, and Carrie was able to tell him, "Yeah, I'm working on that, Alan."

"Expect the lockdown to be lifted by tomorrow," she continued, "and get me the transport log for the last 5 days, and a pouch, please," she finished. Then she eyeballed Redmond and said, "Okay, John. You and I are gonna have that chat now."

He looked around at the other case officers like he just realized the woodshed roles had been reversed, and followed Carrie into her – formerly his – office.

She dressed him down, and quick, and when he had the nerve to ask how she got the position, she stonewalled him so politely that he felt like he'd just been decapitated with a feather-duster, "I asked nicely," she said. Then she shooed him out of the room, with an admonition to sober up – damn. And he'd thought he had been so subtle. He and Dennis only drank vodka during the day, but evidently Carrie was perceptive on a number of levels. He was tempted to think of her as a ball-busting bitch, but then reminded himself they were on the same side.

When Redmond had taken himself off, Carrie opened her computer and began to consider the situation. Why had Sandy's intel always been so good? And how had it gone so horribly wrong at the Dande Darpa Khel? And as always, when she was seeking ways forward, thinking through strategies, and wishing for another sane, logical mind to bounce thoughts of, her thoughts went to Peter.

Quinn. Where was he? Last she'd heard, he was on his way out. She couldn't believe he meant it. Partly, because she didn't want to believe it. If Quinn was out of the CIA, then she'd lost one of her most reliable operatives. Thoughtful, perceptive, and showing something like wisdom in a business where almost nobody lasted long enough to gain any. He was also noticeably loyal to her, in a business where there was hardly ever any such thing as interpersonal loyalty. Someone she considered to be almost her right hand, he was. There was more to it than that, though. It pulled at her guts.

Carrie thought of the number of times she'd turned around after a difficult Op and found him standing there, watching over her. Like after the time she'd pretended to be in a yoga class, only to have been made by Javadi's goons anyway. Quinn had been outside, watching, waiting. He had cocked his head at her, exasperated. Obviously he had been worried about her. And later that night, there had been the… what else was there to call it? The Night Watch.

Carrie smiled, because she knew that there was a Rembrandt by the same name, which was one of the most famous paintings in the world. For Carrie, her Night Watch would be the night Peter sat 100 yards away in his car, observing her residence, not knowing that she would soon be stripped, searched, and kidnapped to negotiate with Javadi – all part of the play, but something that terrorized her, and no doubt, Quinn as well.

That night, he had sat in his vehicle, called. He had asked if she was ok. She had answered, honestly, 'No, not really." She had asked where he was, and he had said, about a hundred yards away. "At a safe distance," he'd said. His voice had been loaded with meaning, as if the slightest word or request from her and he'd be closer – in her yard, on her couch, in her bed – and ready to protect and serve. But she hadn't known then that Javadi's goons had made her and that the whole operation was really blown. She asked Quinn if she'd gotten made, and he said, honestly, "I don't know." She had said it was always a fucking long shot – how heartbreaking too, when she considered what she'd gone through for the op, and then told him goodnight.

Next thing she knew, she had been cornered in her room by two of Javadi's armed men, her phone crushed under their feet, Peter too far away to observe or hear – no doubt if he had known, he'd have shot them both. But instead, they had violently stripped her naked. Cut her clothing off, until she was intimidated enough to remove it herself. Pressed her belly against the wall, supposedly checking for weapons, wires, or what have you, but in reality, enjoying the opportunity to frighten her, feel her body, observe her nakedness and vulnerability, her terror. It was part of the op, and after they dressed her, they put a pillowcase over her head and hustled her out of the condo. Then hauled her off to Javadi's crib, where he thought he'd have the upper hand.

The whole thing had been by design, but she had felt so violated. She and Saul had calculated the whole move to bring Javadi in, turn him, one of the most delicate acts of cross-counter-intel that could possibly be executed. But sitting alone in her office, what Carrie thought back to was what would have happened if Quinn hadn't been at a safe distance.

Her essential loneliness, her deep want for companionship, _his_ companionship, her desire for satisfaction, sexual and otherwise, reared up in her mind. She drank her shitty Embassy coffee and imagined what it would have been like to have Peter protecting her. The whole Javadi op, out the window, and only Carrie's feelings and desires in the front. She'd have said something different. Instead of "I'm not sure I like being watched over by you, Quinn," she'd have said what she was really feeling.

Carrie slept her computer, closed her eyes. In her mind, she replayed the night. "Quinn, I don't feel safe. Come closer," she'd have said. She'd have listened for his voice, gravelly, hoarse, sensual.

"How close?" he might have asked.

If she had been losing her mind with isolation and fear, she might have said, "Just knock on the door." And she knew he would have come. He was like that, dedicated, relentless.

He would have parked the car, approached alone in the dark, checking for tails, observers. If there had been anything to be concerned about, he'd have called in more agents. If it had been all-quiet, he'd have knocked on the door. Or come over the back garden wall and appeared at the French doors, as he sometimes did. Sometimes, considering the fear, humiliation, pain and grief she'd suffered as a result of trying to turn Javadi and find out who move the bomb and clear Brody – from this perspective, all such a waste, all such a world of warped horror and trepidation, and for what? She wishes she had let Peter blow the op. Thoughts of him had become her only pleasure, and she mentally went on with the fantasy, there in her new Islamabad office, feeling the sting of his absence even as she mentally reviewed the way that night should have gone.

Quinn. Darkly handsome, strong, reliable, and as her eyes had finally come to see him, beautiful. Imagine if he'd come to her door. The Javadi op would have been off, as they would have seen Carrie wasn't alone. And instead of these nameless Middle Eastern thugs with their hands on her, it would have been Quinn on her couch. She replayed the fantasy again, where she asked him to stay. Instead of at a safe distance, as he'd called it. He'd have been able to keep her much safer. Her feelings for him were disturbingly more than collegial. And she missed him a great deal more than she'd admitted to herself.

"I'm glad you came in," she would have said, "Because I'm not ok."

Quinn would have come in, sat his Walther on the coffee table and said, "Do you want me to stay?"

From there, the fantasy diverged. Sometimes she got him a drink and they sat and talked in the living room until they both fell asleep there, her head on his lap, one of his hands on her shoulder, the other, on his weapon.

Sometimes, in the fantasy, she gave him permission to do what the Javadi goons had done, carry her upstairs over his shoulder, abruptly remove her clothing, explore her body with his hands, eyes crawling over every newly exposed inch of flesh. Then, he would put a huge hand on the flat of her sternum and push her backwards toward her bed, naked, watching her eyes, watching for her to object and say no, and when she did not, stripping himself similarly, and entering her, combining animal need, hurt and tenderness so swiftly in turn that she could not distinguish one from the other, both of their pleasure and frustration so great, that they'd give themselves over to any sensation, as long as the other caused it. Her mental image of Quinn entering her from behind, hands on her hips, finally losing control of himself enough to make a sound, an anguished bark of possession, a spasm of decadence, his long wait for her touch almost beyond bearing. She hoped it was true, she wanted it to be true.

In her mind it was true. He was, after all, her happy place. She knew nothing for sure, though, and the last time they spoke, he swore he was leaving the agency and would not be joining her in Pakistan. Her chest ached at the thought, that they were done.

These thoughts, these were thoughts of the past. In fact, none of it had gone the way she imagined. The Javadi game had worked out the way they hoped, they had sent his ass home as an American double agent, but in the end, she wondered if they'd done any good. She wondered if the best thing that could have happened is that she had invited Quinn inside, and asked him to strip search her – it sounded like the better option at the moment, that was for sure.

She was about to close her computer and head back to her sterile agency apartment, when her g-phone rang. The called ID read, "Peter Quinn."

"Please don't say you pocket dialed me," she said, more pleased than she was willing to admit to see his name.

Typical Quinn, he started right in the middle of the paragraph, no explanation. "We never had a chance," he said.

"What do you mean?" Carrie asked.

"In the car. With Sandy," Quinn said, breathlessly

"What makes you say that?" Carrie asked, concerned. "Are you alright?"

Quinn said evenly, "It was premeditated – the whole thing – from start to finish. There was a guy in the crowd with an earpiece, coordinating the whole thing."

Carrie was stunned. "Go to your computer," Quinn said to her, "I just sent you the link."

She opened the link, looked, watched the vid. Sure enough, there was a guy in the foreground with a comm link, and obviously was driving what was a clearly a coordinated operation.

"Jesus, Quinn!" Carrie said, distressed.

"We never had a chance," he said, disgustedly.

A moment or two of discussion later, and Carrie was able to say what had been on her mind all along. "This changes everything Quinn. I really need you, now."

She could feel Quinn emotionally pull back after that statement, and she got a stomach ache at his tacit refusal, which then came verbally. "I can't do that, Carrie, I'm sorry."

Abandoning dignity, and remembering her previous intimate thoughts, she said, "Quinn, I wouldn't ask if there was anyone else I could count on. Don't make me beg."

"I can't do it," he said again, sounding more strained this time.

"Please," Carrie begged. "Please!"

Carrie begging him for anything was almost more than Quinn could take.

"Shit, Carrie," he said, through clenched teeth. "You're the hardest person in the world to say no to," he gritted.

"Is that a yes?" she asked, almost capering with delight. Silence on the line – but she knew he was coming.

"God, I fucking love you, Quinn, you know that, don't you?" she said?

"Yeah," he said. The line went quiet.

She closed her laptop, went back to her room, and got comfortable with a glass of wine. It was only a drink or two in that she realized what she had said – and that she had actually meant it.


	7. Always Ready

Quinn showered thoughtfully, and pretty much drained the hot water heater while he shaved, doing a careful job. It isn't like he planned on kissing anyone, but it didn't hurt to be ready. He smiled grimly to himself. Everyone always liked to quote the Marine Corp motto, "_Semper Fidelis_", which meant "Always Faithful." It was a great motto, really. But he was partial to the Coast Guard Motto, which was less well known: "_Semper Paratus_" which meant, "Always ready." He snickered at the memory of a Coast Guard buddy who'd gotten "_Semper Paratus_" engraved on the inside of his wedding bands, tongue at least partially in cheek. He hoped the guy's wife was as ready as the groom, and that she had a sense of humor.

He had just stepped out and was toweling off, when he heard someone knocking at the door. Who the hell could it be, at this hour? His rent was paid months in advance, although that apartment manager always seemed to find excuses to bug him about something. A week ago she had shown up with a gallon of shiny blue paint, and asked if she could paint his door. He bit his tongue and didn't respond with the sharp "I don't give a fuck," that jumped to mind. She had gamely painted the door, and left a couple of potted plants on either side. A little sprucing up, she'd called it. Quinn couldn't have cared less, as long as nobody burned the place down while he was inside it. A few days later she'd shown up again, this time with a fifth of bourbon. It was a good thing he was flush on Jimmy Beam at that exact moment, with plenty to spare. He'd just pretended he wasn't home. If he'd been desperate for booze and lonely for company at a later hour, he might have let her in, and who knew what complications that would have led to? He didn't need any extra bullshit, that was for sure. Other than that, he had no idea who it would be. He didn't have any other friends in the area, or any at all, really.

He involuntarily pictured Carrie standing outside his door, needing him, hammering on the door frame with tears in her eyes, and his heart leapt. Idiot, he told himself. She's in Pakistan. Where you would be, if you wanted to watch over her, his inner watchdog growled at him. He shook his head fiercely, and wrapped the towel around his waist. Whoever it was, they pounded relentlessly, and he'd not have time to get dressed. He emerged from the bathroom, and instead of Carrie's silky fall of golden blonde, was the bald and shiny pate of one cold-hearted Black Ops motherfucker.

Dal Adal. _Fuck_. Last person on Earth he wanted to see.

After a quick peek, Quinn angrily yanked the curtain over the side windows open. "I told you to go fuck yourself, not come for breakfast," he snapped angrily.

Adal, unmoved by Quinn's dismissal, chided, "Come _on_, Peter, let me in." He dangled a paper bag in front of the door, and continued, "I brought donuts."

Was there ever anyone so successful at hiding the depth of their impassive cruelty in a cloak of collegial informality? He sounded as calm as if they had cheerfully disagreed over the outcome of a football game in a three-beer bar argument. Donuts. _Fuck me_, Quinn thought. The balls on this guy. But I guess there's a reason why he's climbed this high in an organization that doesn't exist.

Quinn opened the door, almost twitching with anxiety, to see Adal's driver-cum-bodyguard standing behind him on the balcony.

"Just you," Quinn said.

"Whatever you say," Adal said formally, and stepped inside.

Adal handed the donuts over to Quinn without looking at him, sauntering forward like he owned the place. Quinn snatched them out of his hand. "I won't go to Langley, so Langley comes to me," he snarled. "Is that what this is?"

"Can you not accept that I'm genuinely concerned about you?" Adal drawled.

Oh, right, Quinn thought. After the number of times you've sent me, Rob, all the guys on Ops that were 50/50 survival, with exfil plans that consisted of,"find your own way out, somehow." Cocksucker, the only thing he was worried about was losing an expensive, highly trained tool. A mechanic, worried about where his favorite torque wrench was. One that knew a lot of secrets, to boot. I _bet_ he's fucking concerned.

"So why the gorilla?" Quinn asked sharply, referring to the bodyguard.

"Oh, Jay? He's just my driver," Adal said. The guy could come up with an excuse for standing on the Capitol Mall with a stick of dynamite in one hand and a lit cigar in the other, and people would buy his line of shit. He was that effective at snowing people. How did I land with this bunch, mixed up with a guy who could sell sand to a Berber, and make a profit. I used to be an honest man. Somewhere inside me, that honest man still lives. And I want him to stay alive.

"Well, I appreciate the concern," Quinn said, more calmly. "But I'm fine. Thank you." Leave now, please, he thought to himself. Fuck off. I need to make this decision on my own.

It had been a see-saw, a nightmare of back-and-forth. One day, he was filling in the forms, preparing to get out. The next, he found himself folding his things, preparing himself for a tour in Pakistan. He had his bags half-packed one day before he knew what he was doing. It was insane, it was a nuthouse. But the last thing he needed was anyone insinuating anything about his state of mind. He was working on himself, he was fine. At least he wanted to be. The bottle kept getting in the way. Adal didn't miss that detail, either.

"Mm," was all he said, when Quinn said he was fine. Then a moment later, he kicked a few of Quinn's empty beer cans across the floor. "So I can see," he finished, smarmily.

"A few beers," Quinn said through clenched teeth. "I need help sleeping. Big deal," he said. He knew it was more than a few, and that it was more than needing to sleep. But none of Adal's fucking business, that was.

Adal's voice changed. It asserted command, took on a stronger tone. "The group takes care of its own. You know that, and you know why," he said.

Quinn hadn't moved, but to turn to face Adal. His ire was growing, but he retained his control.

"I don't belong to the group, or to you, or to anyone, anymore," Quinn said tightly.

Adal had the nerve to quote an old Ops saying, one that was older than the C.I.A. by a couple of hundred years. "Once a scalp hunter, always a scalp hunter, they say," he said.

"That's what _you_ say. That, and, 'You're my guy, Peter,'" Quinn didn't know what he hoped to gain by bringing that up. But he didn't want to cave, to let it slip. Let the knowledge through that loneliness, mayhem and assassination had taken their toll, and that there was only one shining light in his world anymore. And that she was half a world away – no –that was not for Adal's ears. Or for anyone's, except Carrie's. Someday, maybe. If he could bring himself to tell her, while sober.

Adal spoke again. "Well, I invested a lot of time and money in you," he said. Again, the _cojones_ on this guy. He spoke about Quinn like he was nothing more than investment that wasn't paying off. It was dehumanizing.

"I'm sorry to disappoint," Quinn said, as coolly as he could.

A long silence fell between them. Neither one moved for the bag of donuts. Quinn finally broke the quiet, saying, "Alright. So what now?"

"Simple. Convince me you can keep your shit together from now on. Stay on with us," Adal intoned.

"Or else, what?" Quinn insisted, even though he inwardly cringed, knowing the answer.

"I believe they call it retraining," Adal threatened. And it was certainly a threat.

Retraining. It was a catch-all buzzword, meaning anything from the gentler tactics of being busted down in rank, sent back to basic, pay-cuts and all, to more ugly techniques of mental reconstruction – some could be regarded as flat-out brainwashing, almost torture – to the very worst. When an operative could not be controlled, was completely off the hook and was ready to open a line to the Washington Post and start revealing the secrets of the group, the final "retraining" was a couple of 9 mm slugs to the back of the head. The poor slob would never see it coming.

He had to project as if he was in control. As if the only words that would ever leave his mouth would be the right ones. That he would never let secrets out that could hurt Langley, his group, or the security of the USA. If Adal perceived him as a loose cannon, someone drunk, hell bent on breaking the rules, spoken and unspoken, he'd never see Carrie again, not as an assignee of Adal's group, not as a case officer in Saul's group, not in a position with Carrie over in Pakistan. What was that job title she'd cobbled together for him? Chief of Support? The very title suggested she needed him. What the fuck was he waiting for?

It was like that fucker Adal was reading his mind. He had segued off into this little mental vacation after Adal had brought up retraining – it had only been about 15 seconds. But Adal went on from there, like Peter's thoughts were completely transparent. Maybe they were.

"Come on, Peter, let's get real. This," he said, indicating the beer, the empty, lonely apartment, Quinn's general state of barely built-up exhaustion, the whole mess – "This is not about PTSD. This is about your feelings for Carrie Mathison," he finished, suggestively. He watched Quinn carefully for a response.

_Careful. Careful._ Don't do anything crazy. Don't let this motherfucker see what you feel. It's _not his fucking business _– just Carrie's – and mine.

Quinn cocked his head back, cast a half-closed eye at Adal. He projected his whole demeanor to suggest that the very idea was preposterous, as if Adal suggested that he was quitting because he wanted to join the Rockettes and dance every night at Radio City. As quietly as he could muster, Quinn answered with a half smile, "Are you fucking kidding me?" He dared a quiet laugh. _Careful. Careful._

"If she hadn't been in that car, Sandy Bachman would be alive today," Adal said, now clearly baiting him. Motherfucker, Quinn thought. But still, he stepped carefully. He kept his response quiet, and a little ashamed.

"You're wrong. I did all I could. If Carrie had been in the front seat and Sandy in the back seat, Sandy would be alive today. You can watch it all online."

Quinn turned around, opened the bag of donuts, and took one out. He used the moment to compose himself further. "Also, there was supposed to be another weapon under the rear seat. But it wasn't there. If Carrie had access to a weapon, the outcome might have been different. I guess we should take that up with the chief of the watch in Islamabad, right?"

He kept cool, turned, and kept his eyes on Adal. Took a deep breath.

"I'm going to stay in the Agency, or not. It's my decision. Whatever I do, I'm going to keep to our agreement. I understand what I agreed to, and I'd never endanger the group. That's not the guy I am," he finished. Then he took a pensive bite of the donut.

He held the paper bag out to Dar Adal. "You gonna have one?"

Adal seemed to be satisfied, seemed to realize that no amount of bitching, pointing out Quinn's failings, or using Carrie's name – how ugly to hear his foul voice form the syllables of her name! – Quinn just wasn't going to bite. He reached in the bag, took out a powdered donut, and took a large bite. He might have intended himself to look fierce, but he looked a bit ridiculous, with powdered sugar on his mustache and goatee, a trace of it down on his eternal black turtleneck. _Score one for the home team_, Quinn thought. How unusual to feel like he'd won an argument with this asshole. He breathed a little more easily.

"Well, Peter. I knew you weren't that far gone," Adal said. He moved casually toward the door, every move probably scripted in his manipulative brain the day before – if Quinn says this, do that. But Quinn felt like the heat was off. And he'd felt like he'd deflected something worse. He couldn't say for sure it was retraining. Perhaps it was just a deflection of attention to the deepest feelings he had, and the only person he knew who could elicit them. It just wasn't Dar Adal's place to touch his relationship with Carrie. "You make your decision."

Adal let himself out, and Quinn watched until his and Jay's dark silhouettes moved down the second floor balcony, down the stairs, and back out to the parking lot. Only then did he exhale. He strode into the kitchen, and threw the rest of the donuts in the garbage.

Fucking Adal. Quinn hoped he had thrown him off the scent. Whatever he did, he'd do it for the right reasons. And for the right person.

* * *

><p>Later that night, the bottle called to Quinn again. He'd been doing ok, had eaten a decent meal including a vegetable and some protein, though he'd forgotten quickly enough what it had been. He had also gulped a couple vitamins – he had read somewhere that people who drank too much usually didn't get enough B vitamins. Or probably enough anything, he thought. Otherwise, why would they drink so much?<p>

He had been fine until he'd answered the internal call to crack open his computer – again – and start reviewing Youtube footage of Sandy's murder by the crowd. And when it started, he began to relive the whole mess. So many clips to watch, and he watched them over and over. Before he knew it, Bacardi Black was keeping him company. It was so fucked. His memory of it, compared with the footage. Sometimes he thinks he remembered it accurately. And sometimes he confabulated things and didn't realize it right away.

Sometimes he even closes the computer and fantasizes that Carrie had gotten out of the car when they got back to the Embassy. That she opens the front door, where Sandy had been, sits down next to him. That she breaks down in tears and throws herself into his arms, not able to speak. He kisses her cheeks, holds her close. They sob quietly together – they had lost a man, but they had survived, thank God. It was how he had felt. Why hadn't she felt that way? Or in another version, she reaches up, tries to wipe the blood off her face with a tissue, and reaches for him with her other hand? In this fantasy, he catches her hand in his, kisses it, holds it to his face. "Quinn," she says softly, as he closes his eyes, "You did all you could. Thank you for saving my life." Sometimes this version of the fantasy finishes with her expressing her gratitude, in other ways, later that night.

But not tonight. Tonight Quinn reviews footage, and drinks, and becomes more frantic with each passing moment. Adal's visit set him on edge, no matter how cool he kept. Again and again he reviews videos, old and new. Was there something else he could have done? He didn't think so. But now and then, he wasn't sure.

Tonight though – something new pops up. In a video Quinn had never seen before, he sees a man clearly directing the flow of events using a comm unit. He's speaking into it, directing the crowd, obviously telling a few key people which car to box in, and that they must have the bald guy at all costs. He can read his lips in a few scenes. Fuck! The whole thing was scripted, from start to finish.

He grabs his cell, immediately dials Carrie. She answers, "Please don't say you pocket-dialed me," cheerfully, seeming glad to hear from him.

"We never had a chance," Quinn starts intensely. He guides her to the video, sends her the link.

Quinn and Carrie converse brusquely for about three minutes. And when Quinn rings off, he reels at what he's just heard. He's just agreed to stay in the service, to keep with the C.I.A., to go back to Islamabad and work with her. But that's secondary to what came out of her mouth just before she hung up.

One choice phrase that would ring through his skull for the rest of the night is, "Don't make me beg." Something leapt up boldly in him, at that remark. He intended to make her beg, at some point in the future, oh yes. Quinn would hear her beg. But it would not be for work, nor money, nor firepower. It would be something entirely more earthly and intimate than that. He was going to see to it.

But the kicker was almost the last thing she said. "Is that a yes? God, I fucking love you Quinn," she had said. "You know that, don't you?"

He was so flummoxed, he couldn't even respond at first. Then he managed a brief, "Yeah," and hung up. He had to hang up fast, because it was on the tip of his tongue to say it.

"I love you, too," Quinn said to the empty room. He started to his bedroom, on his way, throwing the rest of the bottle of rum in the trash. Feverishly, he began to pack.


End file.
